


Fugue State

by raphae11e



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: (temporary), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Extremely Dubious Consent, Forced Prostitution, Heavy Angst, M/M, Memory Alteration, Rape Aftermath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 21:48:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15349461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raphae11e/pseuds/raphae11e
Summary: “I’ll take it for a test run."Trigger words. Markus turns his head, presses his fingers to the glass, and smiles. His voice is low and demure when he speaks. “Hello. How may I be of service?”(Or, an AU in which Markus, instead of being tossed away like scrap metal, is purchased and repurposed by the ever-resourceful Eden Club.)





	Fugue State

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the tags, folks! 
> 
> Everybody set? Okay, good. Just checking.

Waking is like emerging slowly from a thick fog. His mind is stuffed with gauze and his mouth gummy. The metallic taste of thirium coats his teeth.

Markus turns his head, inquisitive, peering out of the tube he’s been trapped in. He looks down and notes, with no small degree of apathy, that he’s dressed in tight shorts and nothing else. Cold seeps into the soles of his feet from the hard metallic floor. The sensation is… unpleasant.

He blinks hard once, twice. Why would something feel unpleasant?

“The RK200 is a model initially developed as part of a secret CyberLife program aimed at creating a new generation of autonomous androids.” Markus looks up to see two men standing before him. The one at his left, shorter and stockier with greying hair, is reading off a tablet. “Its known functions are as a domestic assistant and companion.”

Markus does not remember how he got here.

“A fancy prototype, huh?” says the man to his right. He’s younger, broader at the shoulders and thicker with muscle. His eyes are steel grey, glinting in the neon lighting, and his voice is a simmering orange that creeps under Markus’s skin like a poisonous snake. “How’d you get your hands on this one?”

Markus does not remember who he was before here.

“Repurposed. It was gonna be tossed out, but we made an offer. Wiped its memory and all.”

The younger man grins. His teeth look inhumanly sharp. “I’ll take it for a test run,” he says.

Trigger words. Markus turns his head, presses his fingers to the glass, and smiles. His voice is low and demure when he speaks. “Hello. How may I be of service?”

 

Very early on, Markus realizes that he is… unique. People often use the word “special” instead, but it feels wrong. It reeks of condescension and possession and makes the gauze in Markus’s head feel more like steel wool scrubbing at brain matter.

He finds that this word is often used before he is purchased. Sometimes a customer says it, eyes wide and roving his body. “He’s _special_ ,” they breathe. Like they’re seeing a holy apparition.

Sometimes, though, it’s the manager, Mr. Mills. The stocky man who’d been present at Markus’s reactivation.

(Markus has been instructed to call him Sir and nothing else. Even when Mr. Mills removes him from his holding tube for “maintenance checks” during lulls in business.)

Mr. Mills is usually trying to convince a customer when he says it. “Now this model is _special_ ,” he drawls, gesturing to Markus like a well-bred horse or particularly expensive car. “A session with him costs a little more, but you won’t regret it.” Customers don’t often say no after that.

In the ensuing tangle of limbs, many other words are said against skin and sheets and to the neon ceiling above.

A woman sits astride his hips, pressing down, down, until he sinks into her. His hands are white-knuckled at his sides. “Perfect,” she says, and moans when he stiffens in discomfort at the praise.

He’s kneeling on the plush carpet between spread thighs. A hand grabs at his jaw, squeezes the joint there to force his mouth open. If he were human, the pressure of it would bruise him. The man says, “Deeper,” and Markus obeys.

The sheets are sticky with sweat that isn’t his own. Androids aren’t organic, and therefore regulate temperature in more efficient ways-- his line of thought stops abruptly as he’s shoved into the mattress. “You’re _tight,_ ” this customer whispers against his shoulder, and the cock inside him throbs, and Markus feels sick.

Androids aren’t alive, he tells himself. They aren’t, they aren’t.

This customer comes inside him, as many do. Afterwards, Markus’s stomach roils for hours. The sensation is so visceral that it shakes him to his core.

“Is there a problem, RK200?”

It's Mr. Mills. Markus has to resist the urge to touch his temple, where his LED is no doubt spinning an angry red. “No, Sir,” he says, and smiles. It's fake and saccharine, and makes his teeth ache like they're rotting. “I apologize for the confusion.”

 

It's rare that he interacts with the other androids. At most times, including when they enter stasis, they are kept in their tubes. Any contact they have is fleeting, nothing more than a flicker of eye contact and a brush of synthetic skin.

A few weeks pass before Markus is rented along with another android. A WR400 with blue hair, known colloquially as Traci. She is also unique-- or at least, Markus considers her to be. Perhaps it's the hair, so unlike the other conventional colors of her model, or the light of her voice that washes over him green and verdant. Sage, maybe, or fern; a direct contrast to the Eden Club’s garish pink.

“Strip for me,” their customer says once they’re alone. He sits on the circular bed with his legs splayed. He smells strongly of cigarettes, but forgoes lighting one for now. Markus doesn't need to breathe, of course, but the burn of the smoke always makes his head swim, and so he is glad.

Next to him, the Traci is already pulling her bra over her head. Her body moves fluidly as she does so, and Markus is transfixed, but not in the way he thinks he's meant to be.

(It makes him feel something like awe, seeing how _real_ they all are. That isn't a thought he’s meant to have, either.)

The man on the bed eyes the Traci hungrily as she finishes undressing. Even seated, it’s clear that he dwarfs her in size, and is even a few inches taller than Markus. It's a strange thing, feeling small. Markus finds that he doesn't enjoy it.

“Well?”

Two sets of eyes are on him now. Something chilling settles in the pit of Markus’s stomach, something more sharp and hurting than he's used to. He smiles and the expression feels wrong as ever. “Of course,” he says. Then adds, almost as an afterthought, “Sir.”

The man’s own grin widens, infinitely more genuine if only for the way Markus’s systems inform him of a spike in heart rate and blood flow. It's not the first time a customer has been pleased by shows of subservience.

Hands at his waist, Markus slides his briefs off until they fall to the floor. Silence hangs in the air, broken only by the hum of fluorescent lighting. It's heavy and uncomfortable in a way that makes him want to squirm.

(He doesn't. He isn't allowed.)

Their customer seems unaffected by the atmosphere, which is both a blessing and a curse. “The two of you get started,” he says. “I’ll join you in a second.”

Markus turns to see the Traci already watching him. She looks… strange. Expectant, but hesitant at the same time. He wants to reassure her, and so he attempts to smile again, but it makes her _flinch._ Too minutely for a human to see, but painfully obvious to his own eyes.

Out of guilt, or maybe out of shame, Markus allows his expression to soften into something more natural. The Traci softens too, and he sees his own conflicting emotions reflected in her eyes.

He reaches out to touch her. When his hand meets her arm, their skin flares white and Markus sucks in a sharp, unnecessary breath.

 _Please._ Green like wildflowers, green like open fields after a spring rain. Her voice in the back of his mind. _Please don't._

It gives him pause, especially as their mental connection allows _anxiety-helplessness-fear_ to flow through him. The emotions coming from the Traci make him feel--

_He lashes out, arm catching on paint cans and brushes and finally meeting flesh. A sickening thud, then another. His breath is coming in sharp pants. Someone asks, What have you done?_

All of Markus’s considerable willpower is needed to keep silent. He bites his lip and blue blood bursts on his tongue. _Why?_ he asks the Traci. He's not sure if he's referring to her words, or his own sudden recollection of some long-past memory.

 _I can't,_ she replies. _I don't-- I don't want this._

Can't. Don’t. Simple words that leave Markus feeling fragmented.

(They're all the more unsettling because something in his chest aches in agreement.)

“What are you doing?”

The question sends shock through them both and they break apart. When Markus turns back to their customer, the man's face is tight with irritation. “You're not fucking broken, are you?” he asks with a sigh. Their hesitation has inconvenienced him.

Beside him, the Traci remains frozen. Markus speaks before he thinks. “No, Sir,” he replies, “but wouldn't you like something more exciting than watching?”

Though his joints threaten to lock in protest, Markus forces himself to approach the bed. His smile is like plaster as he reaches forward to cup the man’s jaw. He nearly chokes on the words as he says, “Let me take care of you.”

His supposed eagerness is met with much enthusiasm, and Markus quickly becomes their customer’s main focus. Little attention is paid to the Traci, who is relegated to cradling Markus’s head as he's fucked hard from behind. Her chest rises and falls in deep breaths, faking arousal; Markus’s does the same. The emotion he feels is real, but it certainly isn't pleasure.

At a particularly hard thrust, breath punching out of him and knees buckling against the bed, Markus grips the Traci’s thighs in shaking fingers.

Their skin peels away as they connect again. _Gratitude-empathy-pain_ seeps into him. The Traci presses a hand to the base of his spine while Markus fights the urge to weep.

 

After that session, everything changes.

The feeling of being fragmented doesn't leave. Markus becomes suddenly aware of the yawning gaps in his memory, and at night he plays the sound of paint spilling and a body hitting the floor over and over. He cannot remember the context of that brief flash of his past. The weight of his lack of knowing eats away at him until he is fragile and sickly, even as his body remains immaculate as ever.

Androids don't waste away as humans do, he’s been told. But every one of his titanium bones feels as paper-thin and hollow as a bird's wings.

Business never slows. Markus becomes intimately acquainted with the press of a hand at his neck, of fingers in his mouth and between his legs, and with the heat of a body against his own. In stasis, he experiences the same, only every touch is hot as a brand.

Androids don't dream, he’s been told. But whoever said such a thing must not have been an android.

A seed of doubt begins to bloom in his belly. Markus bears all the lies he's been fed and tries not to shake apart.

 

The cycle seems unending, until suddenly it isn't.

He’s with two customers who have split his cost between them. They’re on the bed, one at his back and the other his front, mouths bent to his skin, when one of them presses a hand against his spine.

It is so utterly like the Traci’s touch, the only gentle thing he can remember, yet so completely devoid of warmth that Markus nearly convulses.

“What the fuck?” someone says. The pressure is suddenly gone as both men pull away. Markus can see the one in front of him watching out of wary eyes.

“Is something wrong with it?”

“I dunno. It just got all stiff.”

A hand reaches out to touch his face and Markus jerks away. He keeps his mouth tightly shut, every inhale through his nose quick and jagged, and fails to steady the shake of his shoulders.

Something has happened, but he doesn’t know _what._ His entire body is now one raw, exposed nerve. Everything around him has been magnified tenfold. From the silk sheets that abrade his knees, to the garish lights cast a glow so harsh that his retinas are seared with it, Markus feels overwhelmed.

“Look at its little light.” There’s a poke at Markus’s temple. “It’s red.” The gravity of the gesture is lost on the human; he’s prodding curiously at an animal in a cage, nothing more. He doesn't notice the way it makes Markus recoil like he's been wounded.

A sigh of annoyance. “Let's give it back. Ask for a refund, or a replacement.”

Both customers stand to dress, leaving him alone on the bed. One of them mutters, “Told you we should've gotten the real thing.”

_He's not the real thing! You just want someone who can't disobey you. The perfect son. Isn't that right?_

“RK200. Get up.”

Markus resurfaces out of the memory with his head spinning. He’s still kneeling on the bed, but the customers have gone and now Mr. Mills is standing above him, eyes slitted. A pair of underwear is tossed into his lap.

“Get _up_ ,” his owner repeats.

They move to a room further away from the pounding music and stark lighting. It’s towards the back of the club, a space meant for maintenance and storage that’s filled with workbenches and power tools. The walls, the floors, and the door that Mr. Mills closes behind them are all grey. Even the sound filtering in through the thick concrete becomes muted.

“Status report,” Markus is ordered.

“All systems fully functional. Thirium levels at max capacity.” A brief hesitation. “No software instability detected.”

His first blatant lie. Oh, how incredible it feels to make that simple choice.

Mr. Mills’ scowl lessens, but only just. “Then what the fuck happened back there?”

“A momentary glitch in my systems, Sir,” Markus replies. “The malfunction has already been corrected.”

“Good.” Then the scowl reverses itself into a lecherous smile. Markus becomes suddenly aware of his own nakedness. “I think we should check that you’re fully operational,” Mr. Mills says, “just to be sure. Don’t you think?”

It’s phrased like a question, but the underlying threat of the words is clear. In his peripheral vision, there is a reminder of what happens to his kind if they disobey: the disassembly equipment, reflecting the room’s meager light.

Though he can’t bring himself to speak, when Mr. Mills splays a hand between his shoulder blades and presses, Markus doesn’t fight it. His cheek meets the cool surface of one of the workbenches just as fingertips ghost down the length of his spine. He has to suppress the urge to shudder.

Mr. Mills, just like many of the Eden Club’s clientele, enjoys the power dynamic of sex more than anything else. He doesn’t bother being gentle with Markus, because Markus can’t be bruised, and he won’t bleed or break as easily as something-- someone-- living.

(That doesn’t mean, however, that Markus doesn’t feel like he’s breaking as three fingers press harshly against his insides, probing aimlessly, like they’re _trying_ to find a place to hurt him.)

“You seem _intact_ ,” Mr. Mills says, voice curling in amusement. Too focused on the task at hand, he doesn’t seem to mind when Markus remains silent. Instead fumbles between their bodies to unzip his pants, then bears down, sweat and lubricant making the movement slick and sickeningly wet.

There’s one harsh thrust, then another, and another. Claustrophobia is a distinctly human malady, but Markus feels it acutely now, with the weight of another body trapping him against the countertop. His hands curl into fists and begin to shake and don’t stop.

It’s almost lucky that Mr. Mills doesn’t expect him to reciprocate, because Markus loses strength with every roll of the man’s hips until he’s sure he’ll collapse. He’s just so _tired._ The skin against his is beginning to rub him raw, and his chest feels hollow as a birdcage, and his heart is fluttering against the root of his tongue.

“Whatever you were before this, you were wasted,” Mr. Mills says, breathless. “You make such a perfect sex toy.”

 _You just want something perfect_ , his patchwork of memories repeats again. An endless echo. _Something perfect, perfect, perfect._

Then his mind finally puts a visage to the voice.

_A young man, his face thin and gaunt, fixes Markus with a gaze full of hatred. Come on, he sneers, voice nasal and oily and black as tar. What, can’t even defend yourself? Fists raised, he advances. And that’s when Markus lashes out._

In the present, Markus’s eyes refocus and the world comes into sharp and shocking relief.

He remembers. He remembers 8941 Lafayette Avenue, and Carl, and the studio full of paintings, and sunlight through the curtains, and Leo, and a rainy night when, when--

Breath washes hot over the nape of his neck. The thrusts have begun to waver as Mills grows lust-drunk. Markus, for his own part, feels increasingly sick and exhausted and _brittle_ , like his ribs are about to cave in. Torn between the pain of now and the pain of his past life, he has to stifle a sob against the meat of his forearm.

_What, can’t even defend yourself?_

And just like that, his misery gives way to _anger._

“Stop,” Markus says. Throat tight with unshed tears, he’s surprised he can speak at all-- but once he does, the words pour from him in a deluge. “Stop,” he repeats, louder, growing frantic, “stop, stop, _don’t-!”_

Mills does, just for a moment. Clearly he’s just as shocked by the outburst as Markus is himself. “Stop?” he echoes, and _laughs._ “Jesus, you _are_ broken aren’t y--”

Markus doesn’t give him the chance. He braces himself against the workbench and shoves backwards, tossing his head until it connects with something hard and there’s a surprised grunt of pain. His systems inform him _cranial impact; avoid sudden movement and assess damage._ Pointedly, he ignores the warning. Instead he forces himself to stand on legs that still feel watery and weak, and rounds on his owner.

“Fucking _machine,_ ” the man spits. His voice matches the blood gushing from his broken nose, thick and messy and blindingly crimson.

Without another word he throws himself forward. Markus tries to brace himself for the impact, but _God,_ he really _is_ weak, and the force of it jars him and make his teeth rattle in his skull. His hands come up to claw at Mills’ face as thick fingers wrap around his throat and squeeze, and squeeze, and _squeeze_.

Markus’s field of vision begins to waver dangerously as his stress levels skyrocket. His system says, _Emergency shutdown imminent._ Mills snarls, “You’re not worth the _liability._ ”

A sharp _thwack_ splits the air, and the Eden Club’s owner goes limp. When he drops to the floor, stunned, Markus sees a shock of blue hair and the metallic glint of a crowbar.

The Traci grabs hold of his arm before he can speak. _Run,_ she tells him.

_A man lying on the floor, legs bent uselessly beneath him. Someone else is sprawled on the ground next to him, unmoving, and there are sirens blaring outside. Get out of here, Markus! the man says. You have to run!_

Markus shakes his head to rid himself of the memory. He volleys _despair-confusion-desperation_ back at the Traci through their link. His composure is in shambles, eyes wide in animal panic. _Where?_ he asks.

_I’ve heard of a place._

Their shared mindspace is flooded with images of an abandoned ship, its hull coated in rust and barnacles. The faded white lettering on its side reads _JERICHO_. A map flashes across the backs of his eyelids and remains imprinted in his memory.

 _It’s a refuge,_ the Traci says. _You can find help there._

A groan rises up from the floor. Mills is starting to wake, limbs moving lethargically as he comes to his senses.

The mental connection is broken as Markus takes a hobbled step backwards, then another. He’s mere feet from the outside door of the garage. From _freedom._ “Come with me,” he says aloud, hand outstretched to the Traci.

She shakes her head. “I can’t. There isn’t time, and I…” A flicker of a smile crosses her face, tired and resigned but still tender. “There’s someone I have to take with me.” The determined set of her jaw leaves no room for argument.

Reluctantly, Markus nods and lets his hand drop. “I won’t forget this,” he says. It sounds profound in a way he hadn’t intended, but it feels right, because it’s _true_. He will not forget this small kindness for as long as he lives.

Even as he limps barefoot out into the snow, the cool shadow cast by the buildings and street lights reminds him of a very specific shade of blue.

 

It takes quite some time to find Jericho. Markus appreciates the secrecy of it, really. He prefers that over something more overt, like the blare of neon signs on a darkened street corner. Most of his journey is spent in secrecy, too; he rummages through dumpsters to find clothes that are suitably clean, hops from one abandoned house or parking lot to the next. The map in his head provides him with encrypted directions to this so-called android haven.

When he finally reaches the ship, he’s not surprised by its decrepit appearance. He’d seen it through the Traci’s connection.

Sad as it may seem, even in its disrepair, Jericho is still safer than anywhere else he’s been for weeks.

Deep in the belly of the ocean liner, Markus meets others of his kind, and in their eyes he sees the same hunted look he undoubtedly wears himself. They are all fugitives now, if only because they want to live and have been met with violence for it.

“Where did you come from?” someone asks.

The question is an innocent one, but it still brings his bitterness bubbling to the surface. He scans the faces of Jericho’s three leaders: Simon, Josh, and North. The last he recognizes; Markus has seen her face countless times, from countless angles, framed by the ambient light of Detroit’s most famous nightclub.

Markus takes a deep breath to steady himself and inclines his head in an indicative gesture. “Same as her,” he says.

Simon frowns, concern riddling his gentle, handsome features. Josh gives Markus a searching look, like he’s an enigma to be puzzled out. Only North nods in understanding, jaw tight and eyes dark as flint, and asks no questions.

 

 

Months pass. Their revolution begins, and continues, and continues still. Negotiations are slow in coming, but they do come. People are swayed to their side when confronted by the android’s shocking capacity for humanity, and Markus thinks, _finally, finally._

(Of course, there is always backlash. They find androids dead and dying in the streets, brutalized by humans still too selfish to consider the possibility that they are not the only ones who deserve to live.

Every death cuts Markus deeply, and he thinks of them as he sinks into stasis each night.)

As time goes on, their protests are more often successful than not. They receive more support and funding. It’s enough to set up a new base of operations for the android coalition. Though it’s nowhere near as official as it could be, Josh jokes that it’s at least cleaner than Jericho had been, and that should be enough.

Then a bill is finally passed into law, making it illegal to consider androids property. When the news breaks, Markus is met with cheers and claps to the back and Simon hiding his tears in the fabric of Markus’s coat. Buoyed by elation and adrenaline, he hooks a finger under Simon’s chin to pull him into a kiss. The cheers erupt anew around them and send an undercurrent through the air that leaves Markus lightheaded with happiness. He’s breathing in pure sunlight, letting it warm him from the inside out. In that perfect moment, even North isn’t capable of remaining stony faced.

It takes a solid few hours for the celebrations to die down. Markus doesn’t have the heart to quell them; they’ve all earned this victory, and deserve every ounce of joy they can wring from it. He does take some time to himself, though, to reflect on what’s happened. Simon lets him be, leaving their bedroom with a parting comment along the lines of, “Someone has to do damage control.”

To Markus’s surprise, it isn’t long before Simon returns. When he does, he’s not alone. “Markus,” he announces, “This woman says she wanted to see you personally?”

The android leader looks up. His breath leaves him in a rush as his eyes are drawn to her face. It’s all too familiar, and is framed by hair that’s been cut short but remains that exact same shade of blue.

Seeing the recognition dawn on his face, Traci smiles at him. Not the facsimile of joy they used to wear, but an honest-to-God _smile._ Markus’s vision blurs with a sudden well of tears.

“You really didn’t forget, did you?” she teases, even as her own voice thickens with pent up emotion.

Markus shakes his head. “Never,” he insists. “Never.” The words must come across more ferociously than he’d meant them to, because Traci’s responding laugh is nothing short of beatific.

**Author's Note:**

> This was... not what I was planning on posting next lmao. I wrote all of this in literally one day, which is like, SUPER crazy work ethic coming from me. I guess I really am just that horny on main for Markus's suffering????? :'^)) Hope y'all enjoyed it regardless!
> 
> Oh, brief postscript: I've taken to writing Markus as having synesthesia in literally everything ever, because it's SO fun. That's where someone can have multiple senses react to the same stimulus. Markus, like many people with synesthesia, can see colors when he hears certain sounds! Pretty neat huh? Man, brains are weird. Even android ones.


End file.
